And yet there was a moment when jealousy urged me almost headlong to that rashness.

For in Madonna Paola's eyes there was a new expression as they rested on the face of Giovanni Sforza--an expression that told me she had come to love this man whom a little while ago she had despised.
God! was there ever such an irony?
Was there ever such a paradox?
She loved him, and yet it was not him she loved.

The man she loved was the man who had shown the qualities of his mind in the verses with which the Court was ringing; the man who had that morning given proof of his high mettle and knightly prowess by the deeds of arms he had performed.

I was that man--not he at whom so adoringly she looked.

And so--I argued, in my warped way and with the philosophy worthy of a Fool--it was I whom she loved, and Giovanni was but the symbol that stood for me.